October 26, 2006

Those of you familiar with the Russell Crowe movie “A Beautiful Mind” might remember the scene where his character, the brilliant mathematician John Nash, has that breakthrough moment at a bar when he realizes that he and his buddies would have a better chance of getting laid if they all went after the less-hot brunettes in a crowd of women rather than if they all made a move for the one extremely hot blonde.

This was more an addendum than a contradiction to economist Adam Smith’s long-standing economic theory that “in competition, individual ambition serves the common good.”

For those of you who didn’t see the movie, Crowe (as Nash) points out that the “economic goal” of each individual was to fuck the hot blonde. But the odds that he or any one of his buddies would actually achieve this goal were estimated at somewhere between slim and none.

Worse, he theorized, was the certain contamination of the remaining pool of less-hot women. As each guy made their move (and failed) to land the hot blonde, all of her friends would then be out of reach to any of the guys because no woman wants to be the “second choice.”

The almost certain net result in this scenario was that all the guys would go home empty handed.

However, if all the men agree to completely ignore the hot blonde and only go after the less-attractive brunettes, the odds of at least one or two of them getting laid increased substantially. Moreover, the fact that the men completely ignored the hot blonde bolstered their chances even more because each of the less-attractive women naturally felt more “coveted” and more inclined to reciprocate their interest.

Makes sense, right?

Therefore, Nash concluded that “the best result will come from everybody in the group doing what’s best for himself AND the group” rather than simply pursuing their own individual ambitions without considering the ramifications of their failed efforts on the other “competitors.”

It’s no surprise to me that such an important mathematic/economic theory was conceived in a bar and inspired by a group of horny, drunk guys. This is where true genius is often found. That’s where we got the idea for elephant polo.

Watching this movie the other night, I had a flashback to several years ago when I and about a dozen other really drunk guys packed into a couple of cabs in Vegas to make the hour drive outside of the county to a brothel. Apparently, calling an escort service or just hanging out at the video poker bar in any major casino wasn’t glamorous enough for us.

None (I’m pretty sure) of us had ever been to a brothel before which I guess explains why we were there. Every guy has to do the brothel “experience” at least once in his life. It’s something you never forget.

I guess I was expecting a glorious Victorian estate with one of those huge fucking patios and a bunch of lingerie-clad whores wandering to and fro with cocktails in hand, maybe some brassy band playing in the background. Or at least a midget playing the piano. Not the case.

What you had was basically 10 or 12 fucking trailer homes that had somehow been connected to each other behind what looked like a standard, 1950s ranch-style home. Picture an intersection in the middle of nowhere with two or three of these exact same compounds resting just off the interstate. That’s what it looked like. There was an ominous wrought-iron fence surrounding the compound with something of a call box affixed to the main entry gate with a buzzer.

Anyway, we all piled out of the cabs (or maybe it was a couple of rental cars or some combination) and went to what the whorehouse called its bar.

I think the bar was almost as interesting as the whorehouse itself. It was by far and away the worst fucking “bar” I have ever been to in my life.

First of all, it was fucking bright in there. It was probably two or three in the morning and it felt exactly like walking into the lobby at my dentist’s office. It felt like an operating room.

The bartender weighed at least 500 pounds. And I’m not exaggerating. His fucking gut hung so far over the ice cube troth that he had to position his hips at a 45 degree angle to scoop ice into our drinks. He wasn’t very friendly either as I recall.

But the worst part about this “bar” was that it was furnished and arranged just like a fucking greasy spoon diner. There were no stools. There were no benches or booths. There were maybe a dozen standard restaurant-issue tables surrounded by a bunch of banquet-style, high-backed chairs. Just about every fucking chair was in serious disrepair. Huge chunks of plastic and foam just fucking missing from the seats and backs of these chairs.

For entertainment, as you drank up the courage to head over to the actual brothel, was a fucking 12-inch black-and-white TV up in the far corner of the diner/bar that was tuned to Channel Snow. And the volume was about halfway up. Thank God I wasn’t on acid.

It was the kind of place where if you ordered a Jack and Coke, you got a juice glass filled halfway with Jack and the fat guy handed you a room-temperature RC Cola. I think one of the less observant and most intoxicated members of the party actually ordered a fucking margarita. The bartender just laughed.

Despite the accommodations, spirits were high. It was a bachelor party weekend. The brothel menu was reviewed. Options were mulled. The proverbial hat was passed to finance the bachelor’s entertainment.

After contributing to the fund, I only had about $80 on me. A rough run at the craps table was to blame. She didn’t know it but my then-girlfriend can thank that bad run of luck for maintaining some semblance of fidelity. Regardless, I was at a whorehouse and I was determined to milk this situation for all its worth. I fancied myself something of an anthropologist, I guess.

I wanted to experience the lineup.

Ah, the lineup.

After pushing the buzzer, the iron gate swung open and the bachelor and I and a couple other guys made our way up the stairs into the main house. The madam was middle-aged and nondescript. But after welcoming us to the establishment, she rang a bell and within 30 seconds about eight whores materialized in front of us from out of nowhere.

Maybe we came too late. Maybe this particular night was the night that all the hot whores took off to go work the video poker bars in town. More likely, this motley group of eight women represented the pick of the liter.

In retrospect, the lineup was one of the best and one of the worst experiences of my life.

The girls are just standing there in panties and bras or corsets or whatever facing four young guys who are loaded to the gills. Down the line they went, introducing themselves, smiling and making brief eye contact. Had someone offered me a million dollars to remember any one of their names, I couldn’t have done it. Not even five seconds after the last girl said her name.

It was fucking surreal and uncomfortable.

Obviously, the bachelor had the first pick of the draft as it were. And I knew instantly which girl he was picking. So did the other two guys in the room. It was a no-brainer. She was the only one within 10 years of our age, weighed less than any one of us, still had most of her teeth and no visible track marks.

He made his selection. He didn’t give a fuck about what was good for the group. He pursued his individual ambition. They disappeared.

This is when it got really awkward. Nash’s game theory was out the fucking window. Actually, it was working against the rest of us now. The tables had turned. We were the “economic goal” now and all the fancy calculators and slide rules in the world weren’t going to save us.

A good 10 to 15 seconds of complete fucking silence ensued as the remaining seven or eight women just stood there. The only thing slim left in the room were the pickings.

All three of us took turns eyeballing each other and giving the shoulder jerk, you know, the “go ahead, you’re up” body language. So sad and pathetic. I mean I guess we could have turned tail and left but that would have looked really bad. Plus, I’m sure it would have required the madam to work that fucking buzzer again. There we’d be, three-deep, scratching at the fucking door waiting for her to release us.

It was grade-school kickball all over again. The worst part was that all of those girls had to have sensed it. There’s no question. And they probably suffer through that fucking mortifying humiliation several times a night. There really are no words. Whatever goes on inside the head of a whore who is passed over time after time after time is something I never want to know.

I’m no Brad Pitt but I’m telling you that I honestly felt sorry for the remaining whores. One gal had to be 55. Another looked like this was her last shift before going on maternity leave. For all I know, it was. There was one girl who had a plump but fairly fuckable body but was a hopeless snaggletooth. There was a black girl who scared the shit out of me. At least 6’4” in her heels, all ass and thighs.

The only thing missing was Rudolph the Fucking Red-Nosed Reindeer. We’d stumbled into the land of misfit whores.

Finally, finally one of the other guys pointed at a girl. They disappeared.

Just as I was going to pick a girl, the last guy made a pick and they disappeared. He picked poorly.

So there I am with maybe five or six whores staring me down and I’m all alone. Remember, I have fucking $80 in my wallet. We knew that roughly anything we’d want to get done there was going to run at least $150. That was pretty much the minimum.

I know I’m not going to be doing anything with any of these girls. So I pick the black girl, the fucking Amazon, because I know she’s not going to put up with any of my bullshit. As soon as she finds out I only have four 20s in my wallet, she’s going to run my ass out of there as fast as she can drag me. And that’s exactly what I’m praying for at this point.

Down the hall through the labyrinth of trailers we go. Small talk. Where you from? What’s your name? What are you looking to do?

We get to her “office” which is basically a small mobile home bedroom with an enormous fucking bed that takes up a good 92 percent of the space. I remember tons of pillows, a shitload of vibrators and lube and condoms all over the place.

She asked me how much I wanted to spend and I actually lied and said $100. If she had taken me up on the deal, I would have had a real problem.

This news irked her considerably. She said she couldn’t help me for $100 and I told her that was all I had.

She got up, grabbed my wrist and walked me back down the same hallway we had traversed just 3 minutes early, yelling “I don’t know anyone in this house that’s going to fuck for $100.”

It’s hard to say whether she was screaming this LOUDLY to protest the insulting offer I had submitted or to advertise a potential opportunity for the fucking half woman-half goat prostitute they had hidden away in some back room.

Either way, I was walked to the front door and buzzed the fuck out of there. I was the lucky one.

August 24, 2006

Nothing is really pissing me off today so I thought I’d post some random thoughts about women that take you readers inside the dark, twisted mind of someone who is fucking bitter and angry all the time.

Why don’t they make bras like they did back in the 50s and 60s?

I don’t know what the deal is but all the women on TV shows from that era had torpedo tits. And they all wore really tight sweaters. It was a good look. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for this but I’m bitter and angry that this look has fallen out of fashion. Bring back the torpedo tits.

At what point did panty lines become such a taboo?

Did I miss the memo? You still see obvious panty lines from time to time but they’re pretty rare, especially on women under 40. The other thing is these thongs and g-strings that are supposed to solve the problem don’t really help. It just changes the panty line in question. I can see you’re wearing a thong. That’s right. The secret is out. Is this better than everyone knowing you’re wearing a pair of standard briefs? I must be missing something simple here.

Did you really think the Mom cut was flattering?

It’s a serious problem. For about 95 percent of women, the short do is a horrible call. By short, I mean along the lines of a bob. No good. To really pull off that short of a cut, you better not be fat and you better have really proportional facial features. Otherwise, it’s brutal. I know it’s easier to maintain and all that but come on? Hair is critical.

Why are you self-conscious about farting/pooping?

I mean, I know you do. Sometimes I hear it. More often I smell it. But why is this such a no-no for so many women? It’s weird. Don’t you know that we find your farts endearing. Snap a few off here and there. Better yet, announce their arrival and make pooping faces when you do it. It’s charming. And oddly arousing.

What would happen if a man wasn’t around to do your wet work?

I’m talking about spiders and bugs. I have never met a woman willing to kill a spider or a roach or any other insect that invades the home. I know there are lots of women who live alone. How do you cope? Do you just ignore them and leave the room? For fuck’s sake, grab some toilet paper, climb up on the chair and fucking kill it. I picture single women around the world struggling to push open the doors to their apartments because there are bugs and spiders six inches deep throughout the fucking place. Or is that you don’t want men to see that you’re more than capable of snuffing out an innocent bug life?

Why don’t you ladies like each other?

Take any 8 men in the world who have never met before and confine them in the same room for an afternoon and they’ll be fine. Maybe not best of friends but they can handle it. Do the same with 8 women and you’ll have fucking anarchy. You’ll team up two or three to an alliance and ignore everyone else in the room. Won’t take more than 15 minutes and at least two of the eight women will say something derogatory about one of the other women for no other reason than to bond with their little group.

My theory is that men try to find things they have in common with strange men but women immediately start trying to find things that are different or that they don’t like about other women. Her clothes. Her makeup. Married. Single. Kids. No kids. Hot. Not so hot. There’s a little caste system at work in the female world. The way she talks. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve seen it a million times.

Men will talk about sports, women, cars, work, whatever. Sure, we don’t particularly like all the guys in the room but we’re not ready to write anyone off in the first five minutes. Usually. You little bitches think you know all you need to know about a strange women in about three minutes. You talk shit about each other all the time. It’s a fucking sport for you.

Your biggest concern ahead of a big social event like a wedding or a work conference is what you’re going to wear. Not to look good for men. To look good for women. It’s a fucking competition. For guys, the contest is to see who can dress the fucking worst/most comfortable and get away with it.

You wonder why no woman has ever been elected President (even though you have men outnumbered) or why women rarely become CEO of the company. It’s pretty obvious. You’re too fucking jealous and catty to rally behind any one woman. It’s sad. You broads need to get your shit together.

Why do pretend that you’re not as dirty as we are?

Funny thing happens about a month or two into any relationship. The fucking truth comes out. You’re into that? And that? You mean that wasn’t the first time you did that? Knock off the games. You want to bring a fucking car battery into the bedroom, fine. Just don’t make me play the game where you pretend that I’m corrupting you. Now I have to lug this heavy, corrosive fucking thing all the way back out to the garage, naked and at half mast in the dark. We’ll just get you your own and store it under the bed next to your rabbit and your fucking stash of Penthouse letters.

You’ve been up to no good since you were about what, 11 or 12? You might be holding us back as a couple. I bet you have some tricks I’d like to learn. But you won’t share them unless I stumble upon them. And after we’re done, why is it always my fault?

August 21, 2006

Now it’s time to turn down the lights and light a candle. Instead of the usual tirade, I’m going to take a few minutes to dispense some free and valuable advice. Call it community service.

Beware of the broken woman.

This goes for men and women alike.

The broken woman never appears broken at first glance. Not even at the second glance.

She’ll appear to be normal in every measurable way. Smart, funny, maybe even charming.

She’ll sneak up on you or your man, insinuating herself into his life in a most innocuous way at first. A casual conversation here. An email there. Nothing unusual or suspicious. She’ll just sort of show up at social events or work events or anywhere else the man happens to be. Soon, more overt efforts will be required. They might even require travel.

She’s a buddy, a pal, a person with whom the man, maybe even your man, shares similar interests and views. They’ll find humor in the same stupid things. They will bond.

Another unmistakable characteristic of the broken woman is that she will not be interested in striking up a friendship with you unless you are involved in a serious relationship. Single men need not apply. Girlfriends, especially the kind you live with are good, but married is better still.

But it won’t seem like that’s the deal because the broken woman is always attached herself. That’s another telltale sign. She’ll always have her own man. The advanced broken woman is always married.

Initially, it will be a good cover. She with her man, he with his woman. Part of the thrill for the broken woman is bringing along her man while socializing with the other couple. Just two couples getting together for a night of dinner and drinks. What could be the harm in that?

Eventually, the broken woman will find herself spending quite a bit of time with the married or otherwise attached man, playing that age-old game of cat-and-mouse, pushing the envelope. When exactly does harmless flirting become something much more sinister?

The broken woman knows.

Before long, human nature being what it is, the man stumbles into her trap. She’s a veteran of this game. Knows how to play it from every angle. You might not be sure where it’s all headed, but the broken woman knows.

The next thing you know, you’re getting a divorce or breaking up with your girlfriend. Years and years of effort, good times and bad, are washed away in a matter of months, generating substantial turmoil for everyone involved. The details vary but the end result is the same. The relationship is over and you’re moving on, starting anew with the broken woman.

For the broken woman, extracting herself from her current marriage or relationship is mere child’s play. Sure, there’s some emotional upheaval, but by this point the broken woman no longer has much need for her man. He’s served his purpose. More often than not, he too was once the new man. These cycles are hard to break.

And so it goes. The new relationship takes flight. No longer confined by confidentiality or caution, the new man and the broken woman begin their magical journey. Good times indeed. Sure, the novelty eventually starts to wear off. Regrets surface. Unforeseen issues rear their heads. But on the whole, this new relationship seems to be working out just fine.

It might be two months, two years or even five years down the road but eventually, just as the sun rises and sets, the broken woman will grow bored and eager to repeat the cycle. She couldn’t tell you why and you wouldn’t want to know even if she could tell you. But it’s a fucking certainty. She will be on the prowl again.

It will all start over again. Suddenly, she’ll want to take you out for drinks with some guy from work and his wife. Or something like that. You’ll not even notice it at first because you’ve forgotten how it all began for you in the first place.

July 25, 2006

I don’t know who started this plague on society or what was supposed to be accomplished by this selfish act, but it needs to be eradicated immediately.

My best guess is that some woman somewhere in recent history decided that she wasn’t willing to forego her family name and some man who married her didn’t have the balls to set her straight. That’s usually how these stupid fucking ideas take flight.

And now we all have to live with the repercussions of this one selfish woman and her gutless, pussy-whipped man.

First, let’s get the sexist thing out of the way. I’m sure some women will immediately want to play the sexist-pig card now that I’ve made this declaration. I don’t give a shit.

Let’s talk about marriage for a second. It’s a tradition that most women the world over have obsessed and dreamt about since the beginning of time. Traditionally, the man proposes to the woman, presents her with an overpriced diamond ring and then she spends the next year or so planning and organizing this social extravaganza down to the most minute detail.

Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that the wedding is “her” day. That’s the tradition. And it’s a good one.

When you get right down to it, in marriage, there’s not much “in it” for the guy, especially the wedding itself. Most men get a plain wedding band, agree to all the bullshit requirements of the church, the vendors, the in-laws, in order to make our future wife happy. Invariably, it takes an enormous toll on both our wallets and our patience.

When it’s all done, we’re legally obligated to only fuck our wives for the rest of our lives and, well, that’s about it. There’s no real benefit from where I’m standing.

All of this in the name of tradition.

And though we may bitch about it from time to time, most of us are gamers in the face of such a pain-in-the-ass process just to fulfill the social obligations of this tradition. We do it for you women because we love you and want to make you happy.

But some of you women aren’t happy enough with this one-sided tradition. Nope. You want it all. You want to enjoy all the traditional benefits of a wedding and marriage but some of you are unwilling to make one small consolation to your new husband.

I don’t care if you’re a doctor, a movie star or a fucking bus driver, there’s no good reason for any of you women to retain your maiden name after marriage. But if it’s THAT important to you, fine, keep your fucking last name. While you’re at it, why not keep your single status, too? Just keep living together, you with your name and he with his, and fuck all the pomp and circumstances of the wedding and marriage altogether?

No, you want THAT part of the tradition, don’t you? You just also want to maintain “your identity” after the marriage is consummated. Worse, some of you want to maintain your precious maiden name AND affix your husband’s last name, creating a fucking awkward juxtaposition of last names that sound like some kind of horrible fucking disease.

“Hi, I’m Leslie DeCourcey-Villanueva.”

Yeah, fuck you.

If your maiden name is SO important to you, just fucking keep it. Don’t fucking annoy every co-worker, restaurant hostess and DMV clerk with your petty issue. No one cares that you’re the last whatever your last name is in the family tree. No one gives a half a fuck about how successful you are at your job and how EVERYONE knows you by that name and could NEVER learn your new last name.

You dumb bitch. Now they just have to learn your new hyphenated name. Good call.

“Is it DeCourcey-Villanueva or is it Villanueva-DeCourcey? Ah, fuck it, it’s just Leslie, the fat chick in accounting.”

Hyphenated names always sound uppity and pretentious. They create problems when space is at a premium on documents and other printed materials. It’s a fucking mouthful to say your name and the net result is no one wants to call you by your last name because it’s just such a pain in the ass to say, much less write.

More important, thanks to our online society, it definitely makes it easier for people to find you and do harm. It’s a lot easier to find a hyphenated ex-girlfriend for stalking purposes online than one who has simply adopted a new sir name. Take my word for this.

Had you just stuck with your maiden name or, better, complied with tradition, everyone would be happily calling you by your last name, relishing every syllable.

Don’t even get me started on the women who have the fucking audacity to not only hyphenate their last name, but then ask their husband to adopt the new hyphenated, bastardization of both names. That’s a fucking embarrassment that deserves no further discussion.

Now, let’s think big picture here. Let’s say this hyphenated last name thing catches on and becomes more and more common in our fucked up society. Imagine thousands and millions of men and women walking around with hyphenated last names.

I know. It’s a fucking mess. But it gets worse.

Now suppose that these fucking idiots manage to become pregnant. And, because this name issue was SO important to one of the parents, it’s logical to assume that their children will be stuck with the fucking hyphenated last name for the rest of their inauspicious lives.

Eventually, the law of averages suggest that it’s just a matter of time before little Sally DeCourcey-Villanueva falls in love with little Jimmy Shriver-Schwarzenegger. Now what happens when they have kids? Where do you draw the fucking line? At quads? At octs? At 16s?

At one point does practicality trump a woman’s desire to “keep” her maiden name?

Don’t ask the woman because she’s not thinking about anyone but herself. And that’s fine.